Fragments of Hope Chapter 36: Keres, a harry potter fanfic

KERES

Cruelty

Marietta lay in bed, staring into the gloom, unable to get comfortable even for a minute. Next to her, William appeared to be sleeping, but she had a feeling he was wide awake as well. He had already been to the bathroom a number of times.

It was more than her late stage of pregnancy that was causing discomfort. She knew something was off. William wasn't himself. She had become accustomed, over the past five years, to strange moods, sudden withdrawals and long periods spent down in his study when he hit difficult patches in his work. She knew he was a man who liked to concentrate on one issue at a time and she had long accepted that sometimes she would not have his undivided attention. But never before had he shown such indifference and coldness towards her.

And it wasn't fair. It didn't matter what was going on with his work. This time, she was going to demand that she come first. It wasn't easy to get through to him when he was preoccupied, but she was carrying their child and could now be days away from giving birth. She had a right to expect undivided care and attention from him.

Then, in the darkness, even as she tried to imagine how she would approach the difficult conversation, there came another feeling, one that bypassed the realms of disconcerting and plunged her straight into abject terror. She put her hand on her stomach.

"Bill." She reached over to shake him awake, panic now rife. "Bill, wake up. There's something wrong."

Twelve hours later, she sat on William's sofa in his shabby living room, unable to process the events of the night.

When she had seen Healer Jones's serious face after the initial consultation, she had known it was bad news, and - even as she dissolved into tears - had braced herself for the tragic, unthinkable outcome. The news that her baby was dead.

She had not been prepared for the explanation that ensued. That in fact, there had been no child to start with. That she wasn't pregnant and never had been. Healer Jones's face had shown visible distress as her own replies became increasingly garbled, and eventually William had escorted her away, assuring the healer she was in the best possible hands, that he would take care of her and that home was now the right place for her.

It did not feel so. William's genial manner switched to cold indifference the second they came through the door. The love, support and sympathy she so desperately needed in that moment was lacking as they sat in icy silence and she could not think of a single thing to say.

William was the one to speak first.

"Was it a trick?" he demanded, getting to his feet. "This whole time you thought you could trick me like this? What did you want? My money?"

Marietta's head snapped up in outrage and disbelief. "How can you think this was a trick?" she choked out. "You know I was pregnant. You were here from the beginning. You know there was a baby. Our baby. You know that."

He did not move, eyes still cold. He was unrecognisable from the man she had known for so many years, who had approached her nervously in that tiny old bookshop in Diagon Alley and, with the utmost politeness, asked if she was not Marietta Edgecombe, sister of Valerie Edgecombe who he had known a little at school. His gentle sympathy on hearing that Valerie had not survived the war had touched her deeply, and their relationship had blossomed in private ever since. And in all those years, for all his quietness, his strange moods, his moments of anxiety or panic, she had never known such apathy to appear on his face.

"I don't understand you," she mumbled. "I don't get it. How can you believe this is a trick? This isn't like you. I don't know what's wrong with you right now but you are not yourself."

The last word was fired out with all her emotion as she clutched her wand, and the china vase on the table in front of her was blasted into several pieces. William was quick enough with his own wand to drive the fragments away, but a heavy piece of ceramic crashed against her own cheek. She touched it blankly, still unable to process, even as salt from the tears burned the wound like fire.

Nott, behind the mask that was Bulstrode's face, stared down at the distressed woman, mind working furiously. This wasn't going to work, goading her in the hope that she would storm out of the house. She was already suspicious and knew something was amiss. He had underestimated his own ability to act like the real Bulstrode in the presence of someone who knew him so well. He could probably overpower her if she tried to attack, but if she was lucky and caught him off guard, or worse, somehow made it downstairs, found the real Bulstrode lying sedated in his study… the plan would be ruined before it had even taken off. He'd have to think fast.

"I'm sorry." He put his arms around her, forcing himself not to recoil as she clutched at him and wept. "I'm sorry. I'm shocked as well. Not handling it right. Come on. Let's get you upstairs."

Marietta allowed herself to be escorted up to bed, and fell asleep many hours later. At one point Nott had wondered if she was going to stay awake all night, and had nearly lost patience as her sobs continued into the hours, but eventually she fell into a light but definite sleep and he sat up. He may only have minutes.

The tiniest dab of Draught of Living Death on her tongue. An even more minuscule dab of Mnemosynic. Small enough to go unnoticed. Large enough to cause confusion, drowsiness and a hazy memory of the past twenty-four hours. He considered removing the bruise now flaring on her cheek but decided against it. It may help if the healers thought the woman had had an accident. A fall. Lost her mind due to the tragic loss she had suffered.

To the outside watcher, Hestia Jones was the picture of calm as as she walked down the entrance hall to St Mungo's deep in conversation with Healer Calder. In reality, there was too much to think about. Far too much to worry about. And every day her worries increased. There was the issue of falling staff numbers across all departments within St Mungo's. Staff morale at an all time low. Tonks was due any day now as well. That had to go well. It had to. There could be no other way. Hestia could not bear to see her friend's world fall apart for a fourth time. Then there was that poor woman from yesterday, who had believed she was pregnant, who had been certain she was to have a child this very month, when the pregnancy had, in fact, been false.

Hestia blinked, but what she was seeing was not a figment of imagination created by a weary mind. Said woman was here, in the St Mungo's entrance hall, right now. A scruffy looking man with shaggy, greying hair was supporting her semi-conscious form.

"Found her," he grunted, as both Hestia and Healer Calder rushed forwards to help. "Near Diagon Alley. She'd collapsed or sommat. Thought I should bring her in."

"We'll take her from here, thank you sir. Come on my dear," Hestia said gently to Marietta. "Let's get you upstairs. We'll be able to help you."

"Sir, could we take your details- "

Healer Calder turned round to empty air. The mystery man had gone.

Back at Bulstrode's house, the muggle disguise already wearing off, Nott threw every protective enchantment he could think of on Bulstrode's cottage. He had bought himself some time, but the woman wouldn't stay in hospital forever. He couldn't risk her finding him when she was discharged. With luck, she would think Bulstrode had abandoned her completely, after the lack of child, and would be in too much of a grief stricken state to function. If not - if she was persistent - there were still ways to deal with her...

In St Mungo's, hours stretched into days and Marietta lost track of time. She lost count of the number of messages she sent to William, begging him to come to the hospital, and every one of them went unacknowledged. She had the wherewithal to send a message to her father, who may wonder why she hadn't visited. All was well. She was away on a last minute work trip. He wasn't to worry. Her father had lost too many people to be fretting about her as well.

She managed to get up once a day to stretch her legs, but on one such occasion found herself lost in the maze of corridors within the hospital. She stopped outside the half open door to a private room, hearing voices and wondering if there was anyone inside who could direct her to her own bed. It was a relief to see Healer Jones, who had always been so kind and reassuring, but she recognised the other adults in the room too. The woman was an Auror from the Ministry. The man was Professor Lupin, from her fourth year at Hogwarts. He had been a good teacher. Certainly the best defence teacher her class had known during their school years. The little boy bobbing up and down on his toes must be his son, and apparently, he now had another child. But the red haired baby in the woman's arms only incited rage within Marietta. Where was her own child? The child she had felt growing inside her. The child she had loved even before meeting them. The child her body longed for, that her brain knew had been there, even while everyone else told her it had been a ghost of a dream.

Hestia Jones' head turned a little and Marietta hastily retreated. She did not want to be found here, spying on another family.

The baby slept peacefully in her arms as she sat, motionless, on the hard backed chair. The label on the crib next to the chair read Hope Lupin.

What Marietta was thinking was so very, very wrong. She knew that. But she should have had a baby. There had been a child. Somehow, it was now gone. And this baby's parents already had a child. She had seen him. An adorable little boy with blue hair and a permanent smile.

For a fleeting second she considered the possibility. She had been sitting in this chair for five nights now, watching Hope, holding her hand, staring into her huge blue eyes. All these interactions had gone unnoticed. There was not a healer to be seen. Would it not be so simple to-

Guilt crashed over her before the thought was complete. What a terrible action to have even contemplated, to have considered causing someone else the pain she was currently in.

I'm so sorry, she thought bitterly, tears now fresh as she held the tiny child to her chest. I'm so, so sorry. For even thinking it. A sound came from behind her and Marietta hastily placed the child back in her cot and slipped through the door on the other side of the room.

Enough was enough, she thought miserably, as she lay in her bed. She needed to go and find William. Maybe his anxiety had been exacerbated by recent events. This would have been his child as well, and everyone dealt with grief in different ways - Marietta knew that better than most, having looked after her father for so many years. The recent turn of events must have been a shock. She would go back one more time and say her goodbyes to the baby who had filled her thoughts for the past week, and then leave. The healers could only advise. They could not keep her here against her will.

But there was no red haired baby girl to be found in the nursery the following night. No huge blue eyes roving around the room. Hope Lupin had been taken home. By her own mother.

September

"And you said it wouldn't work." Nott threw a muggle newspaper across his table to Flint. A garish tabloid headline told them all they needed to know and the article described a sudden, unexpected arrival of a little baby boy. The parents were thrilled, having thought they wouldn't be able have another baby.

"Our miracle child," the woman was quoted as saying.

"Problem solved and Happily Ever After," Nott said.

Flint couldn't find the words to respond. With every day that passed his wish that he had never been involved in this plot increased. Most nights he attempted to think of a way to back out. As yet, he had come up with nothing.

"What next?" he asked.

"Getting them both out of the picture was the hardest part," Nott said. "Now I need to finish the fake Veritaserum and concoct Bulstrode's experiment. Arrange some meetings with the others and plant a load more evidence at his house while maintaining a high standard of work at the Ministry so no one becomes suspicious. So a fair amount, but I'm more than capable. You can do your job of staying out of the way, and please try not to fuck it up."

Flint apparently had other preoccupations.

"What if his girlfriend causes problems?" he demanded. "If she loved him, she's not going to sit there, all quiet and nice while the Ministry accuse him of murder. Even if he is dead. Especially if he's dead."

Nott let out a sound that was somewhere between a snarl and a grunt. This was, admittedly, his worry too. He was aware of the complications that the mingled love and despair of a grieving woman could cause when thrown into the mix.

"I'll track her," he told Flint. "Keep an eye on her movements. Keep an ear out at the Ministry for any mention of her. If she starts causing real issues there are more drastic measures to resort to. A simple memory charm may be enough to stay her. Or there's the Elixir of Oblivion, once I've finished making it at Bulstode's - that's another option. It's an old, unreliable potion but it functions by removing memories with the biggest emotional impact, therefore could be ideal. It would likely remove all strong memories of Bulstrode from her mind. She would forget much about their relationship. She may even forget she had a child with him."

He shrugged, eyes glinting as though amused while Flint watched on with sullen revulsion.

"I'd be doing her a favour, if anything."

oOo

November

Nott was as good as his word and kept close tabs on Marietta over the weeks, then months, that followed, but it seemed she posed little threat to his scheme at present, for she made no further sign of searching for Bulstrode, nor of reporting him missing. She stopped going to her work, spending her days alone in her flat or else visiting her father. Nott relaxed a little. It was one less complication, and he had quite enough to worry about as it was. The attempt to create a specific memory removal potion remained fruitless, and while he had expected limited success with the experiment, he did not welcome the acute sense of failure that came with it. The fake Veritaserum was also proving more difficult to perfect than he had expected.

His meetings with the rest of the group were progressing much as expected and the likes of Mulciber, Stonehaven and Zabini had been only too glad to accept Bulstrode's now visible place in their midst. Cornelia Jugson was currently Nott's biggest worry. She was nosy and lacked all subtlety, and she also appeared to resent the fact that Bulstrode had so far kept his hands clean in the physical attacks, forever making snide comments about passing the buck and shirking responsibility. She was one of the few Nott had permitted to access Bulstrode's house, showing her his plans for the winter London attack in an attempt to pacify her and assure her that he was doing his fair share of the work. However, he wasn't sure what she might do next, and such unpredictability was unnerving.

Flint was another irritant. Too unintelligent not to be a liability, yet too invested in the success of the plan to stay out of the way, there was a difficult balance to be found between giving him as little important information as possible, but enough to keep him satisfied. The progress of the fake Veritaserum, in particular, had become an obsession for him.

"But when will it be ready?" Flint demanded, looking down into the cauldron, one evening when Nott had, grudgingly agreed to show him the progress of the concoction. The potion was crystal clear like water. There was a faint metallic smell issuing from it.

"Soon, Flint. It's nearly ready."

"You keep saying that. I thought it would be done ages ago."

Most alarming to Flint was that Nott had clearly thought as much too. There were grey circles under his eyes and he was failing to hide his pensive expression as the topic was broached.

"I'm almost there," he insisted. "Almost. But it's not quite right. It has to be right or there is no point to it at all. It has to have the exact appearance of Veritaserum. It has to be odourless. It has to have the same velocity. It has to cause monotonous speech and unfocused vision but allow the drinker to preserve their ability to lie. And it has to pass the Ministry tab test, which they do before every single interview. I'm sure you'll appreciate that this is quite a tall order. Perhaps you'd like to have a go yourself?"

Flint actually managed a laugh at this.

"Empty words again," he snapped. "As if you'd trust me. You don't trust anyone."

"Trusting others is a risky business, Flint," Nott murmured, stirring his precious potion with care and adding a grain of some powder Flint did not recognise. "You may find that out to your cost one of these days."

He waited, as though expecting Flint to retort, but he did not. Flint was contemplating what forthcoming actions may be lurking behind the sinister words.

"You have very little to worry about anyway," Nott reminded him. "Only Zabini and Jugson know you were involved in The Surge at all. I'm the one in the firing line if this goes wrong. Do you really think I'm not working as fast as I can?"

He shoved a sackful of galleons towards him.

"So you can stop your whining and be grateful I'm providing for you on top of everything else. You have far less at stake than I do."

Returning home to the sight of his family, Flint wasn't convinced this was true. Morella came running to meet him as she always did, and he put the bag of gold on the table with minimum ceremony, but Cynthia was there in an instant.

"What is this job again?" she enquired, opening the bag and inspecting the galleons within.

"Told you, just in a shop," he mumbled. Morella struggled in his arms, holding out her hand and trying to touch the shiny coins. "In the muggle world."

"You seem to be doing well out of it, considering it's a non-magical job."

Flint sighed to himself. Cynthia grew more suspicious by the day. Nott needed to hurry up with his bleeding potion.

oOo

December

It was a cold morning in the middle of December when Nott confirmed that he was finally satisfied with the counterfeit truth potion and, taking advantage of the fact that Cynthia had taken Cadmus to St Mungo's for a medical appointment, he came round to tell Flint in person.

"It's done," he said. "Works perfectly. I've tested in on myself. I've removed all trace of it from Bulstrode's house and I'll keep it safe at mine. I know how I can get it into the Ministry undetected. The rest of the plan is already in motion and Bulstrode's house is a mine of evidence."

"Are you sure you've done enough?" Flint asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. "At Bulstrode's house?"

Nott glared back at him, visibly annoyed that this was his only reaction to what he considered to be a triumphant announcement.

"Yes, I'm sure. Next week I'll be tipping off the Ministry and then we just have to watch the scandal unfold. And the sooner we act the better because the Edgecombe girl is out and about. Got herself a voluntary shift in that old charity shop place up in Hogsmeade and she seems reasonably with it. I'll need to find a way to deal with her if-"

He broke off and turned. Morella, clutching her animal book, had appeared from nowhere and was watching them intently.

"Dad, why is there a man here?"

"Err." Flint attempted to fix a reassuring smile on his face. "Just... work stuff, kid. Nothing to worry about."

Morella continued to stare at Nott.

"I don't like him," she announced. "Can he go away now?"

"Strange child, isn't she?" Nott let out an uneasy chuckle, but he looked unnerved by Morella's unblinking gaze and the stubborn set to her tiny mouth. Flint felt an odd sense of triumph that was quickly erased when Nott turned back to him. The evil gleam was back in his eye.

"When your wife's back, meet me at mine," he said. "Less risky to discuss there."

Cynthia returned from the hospital later that afternoon, weary to the bone. The conclusion was that Cadmus was distinctly unwell, his lungs in particular suffering from the damp air in their flat. At least they could afford better food at the moment, but it wasn't enough. Their home was still cold and dank, despite her best efforts to repair the crumbling walls and broken furniture. For about the thousandth time, she thought of William's offer of financial help, and wondered if it would be best to put aside her pride and do what was best for her family. For her children.

"How was your afternoon?" she asked her daughter, once Cadmus had finally fallen asleep. "Did you have a good time with Daddy?"

'There was a man," Morella said, without looking up from her book.

Cynthia's eyes widened.

"A man?" Her heart leapt at once, giving her a sudden boost of energy. William had finally come back to help her, just as she had known he would. "The same man as last time?"

Morella shrugged and concentrated on separating two pages that were slightly stuck together from grime.

"Morella. Sweetie." Cynthia came and knelt in front of her, tucking one of her curls behind her ears. "It's quite important. Can you tell Mummy what he looked like? He had blond hair, is that right? And he was tall?"

"No. No. He was small," Morella said. "Very small. And brown hair. And he looked like - he looked like -" Brightening, she leafed through the book to a page near the back. "Like that. That one."

Cynthia looked down at the book too, eyebrows knotting in confusion.

"Like a weasel? Are - are you sure?"

"Yes. His face was a weezol."

Cynthia remained perplexed for a moment, and then she thought of one person who may well meet that description in the eyes of a three-year-old.

Nott.

But it couldn't be. It couldn't. Marcus had promised he would stay out of Nott's way. Sworn to her, after one too many awful nights that he had come home, blind drunk from the alcohol that Nott pressed on him. He had promised her they were no longer friends.

"And tonight," Morella added. "They are going to a mine. He said so."

"A - a mine?"

"The weezol man said they are meeting at a mine."

Cynthia was utterly lost now. What business would they have going to a mine? She repeated the words, trying to gage a meaning from them, while Morella, losing interest again, returned to her book.

"Meeting at mine," Cynthia muttered, comprehension dawning. "Morella - Was that what he said? Did he say meet at mine?"

"Meet at a mine." Morella nodded. "Because. Because-" She thought hard, screwing up her face and rubbing some gunk out of her eye with a tiny balled up fist. "Less risky."

Cold chills passed through Cynthia's body. She needed to know what was going on. Right now.

"Sweetheart." Guilt poured through her as she said it, but it was surely her only option, faced with his awful revelation. "Morella, I need you to look after Cadmus - can you do that? Please? I'm sorry but he'll be good - he's had his medicine and he'll be asleep - and I won't be long. Just watch him, yeah? Like you've done before. Can you do that for me?"

Morella's eyes were soulful but resigned as she put down her book, went over to the cot in the corner and sat down next to her sleeping brother.

Cynthia approached Nott's house with some trepidation. She had only been here once before and the bare white stone and black slate roof sent further shivers through her bones. Nott was a dangerous man and this was a bad idea, but she had to find out what was happening. She entered the house by the side door and crept along the hall, hearing as she did so that low voices were issuing from the kitchen.

She reached the door and held out a hand, then stopped. Maybe she should hold off, and confront Marcus about it alone. Before she had time to make her final decision it was made for her. The door crashed open with a bang and she leapt back in terror. Marcus was indeed in the room before her, and he gaped at her in horror from over Nott's shoulder as the other man's thin face twisted unpleasantly. Morella was right, he did look remarkably like a weasel. But weasels were docile, harmless creatures. Nott was anything but harmless and docile, and he was staring directly at Cynthia, eyes burning with pitiless fury.

For all his assurances to Flint, the question continued to plague Nott.

Had he done enough?

He had gone to painstaking lengths. Plans for muggle devastation - some complete, others in draft form - had been left in various locations throughout Bulstrode's house. Samples of all the potions used in the Surge attacks were amongst the other concoctions on his potion shelves and there would be muggle weapons to be found for those who knew how to look beneath the surface.

Nott had gone further still, well beyond the confines of the attacks themselves. It was going to be clear to any investigator that Bulstrode had anti-muggle leanings and a fascination for the Dark Arts, through books, articles, illegal objects and carefully forged correspondence with dangerous people. Other, existing evidence had been destroyed - that which demonstrated his affection for his family, for instance, and letters from a muggleborn wizard named Alex Ledger with whom Bulstrode appeared friendly. All trace of Marietta Edgecombe's presence had been removed from the house.

The cottage was the perfect crime scene. Full of evidence without being too obvious. And Bulstrode would be found dead in the midst of it all, accidentally poisoned by the fumes of an illegal potion while conducting a dangerous experiment.

It was enough to convince any casual onlooker of Bulstrode's culpability. Of that, Nott was sure. But the Ministry... he was less certain.

Nott was an intelligent man, and therefore did not underestimate the intelligence of those who would seek to oppose him. Whatever Malfoy may have thought at school, Potter wasn't stupid and nor were the Weasleys. One did not bring down the darkest wizard of all time without brains, not even one with as many lucky hands as Potter. And the Minister was the opposite of stupid.

Speaking of lacking intelligence... Flint would be arriving at any moment.

A small gold-stoppered bottle of Mnemosynic sat on the table in front of Nott, the tint to the otherwise clear liquid glowing turquoise in the dim lights. He picked up the bottle and passed it from hand to hand, agitated. It had not been his original intention, but over the past months it had become clear there was no other way forward. Flint's memory would have to be wiped as well. He did not have the brains to keep himself out of trouble, as Bulstrode's brother-in-law he would almost certainly be questioned in connection with his death, and counterfeit truth serum alone wasn't enough. One had to be articulate enough to lie convincingly under it, without stumbling and stuttering as Flint was prone to doing. The Ministry would know something was amiss the second Flint opened his mouth, and then Nott's time would be up too.

Thus, he would need to be given a dose of Mnemosynic, so the memories were not there to be recalled in the first place.

Nott conceded it to be regrettable. They were friends and had known each other many long years, and Flint had two young children. But if all came through his family would still get Bulstrode's money. They would be rich, and fed, which was what Flint had wanted from the start.

His wand let out a low hum and glowed blue at the end, the sign that someone had entered his own house, and Nott stowed the potion inside his robes. Not yet. There would come a time to remove Flint's memories, soon, but now was not the moment.

The other problem with Flint was his penchant for tedious questions, and Nott was tolerating them tonight only out of vague guilt over his recent decision.

"I'll be sending the anonymous tip off late next Friday, to ensure maximum chaos at the Ministry," he explained. "Most workers will have left for the weekend - some for Christmas holidays - and will need to be recalled. That will delay them, and by the time they are ready I will have set the cauldron of Elixir of Oblivion to boil and poisoned Bulstrode with the remaining manticore venom. The Aurors will find him dead but with luck the official proceedings will be delayed over the festive period. And I will be keeping an ear to the ground. The second I hear someone's name mentioned in connection with the attacks-" He drew a finger across his throat. "For their memory of course," he added. "They can keep their lives. I am human, after all."

He let out his low, sinister chuckle and Flint felt the usual wave of disgust, but he was used to it by now. All he needed to do was get through the next week and then he could break ties with Nott for good.

"How do you tip off the Ministry without them knowing it's from you?"

"That part is easy," Nott assured him, gesturing towards his shelves. "Untraceable ink. Untraceable parchment. Throw it in the Floo and trust that someone finds it. They're good little puppets. They'll go running straight to the Minister. As long as I keep Jugson out the way."

"And the girl?"

The girl. Nott ground his teeth. The continued sticking point in what he considered to be an otherwise solid plan.

"When she hears of Bulstrode's death and the accusations to follow she may kick up a fuss," he admitted. "But I don't want to act until I know for sure. I've got a dose of Elixir of Oblivion right here, bottled and ready."

He indicated a vial on the corner shelf. It was clear, much like the Mnemosynic, but the soapy, oily appearance to it was green rather than blue.

"And you're sure this Elixir stuff will work?" Flint said. "That she'll forget she was with Bulstrode and forget the lost child?"

"No, I'm not sure." Nott's patience frayed ever further. "I've told you that. It's a ludicrously unreliable potion. But I've also told you it's our best shot. Hopefully she'll fade quietly into the background without drawing suspicion. They kept their relationship secret. The Ministry won't think to question her if she doesn't come forward on her own."

Even as he said the words, Nott remembered he had accompanied Edgecombe to St Mungo's, as her partner. Damn. Yet another complication to think about.

"Or I might have to dispose of her completely,' he murmured, half to himself. "It's not ideal, but -" He broke off and narrowed his eyes suddenly, extracting his wand from his robes. It was emitting a faint humming sound and glowing again. But this time, Nott was not expecting visitors.

"Someone else is here," he said, rocketing to his feet. "Here, in my house."

He crossed to the the kitchen door, wrenched it open, and Cynthia leapt back in fright on the other side of it. Flint goggled at her, horrified, but he had no time to ask what she was doing, nor to spring to her defence. Nott had grabbed her by the scruff of her blouse and was dragging her through into the kitchen.

"You little bitch," he spat, shaking her. "Sneaking around in my house. What did you hear?"

"OY!" Flint, livid, tried to force him away, but Nott drew his wand and pointed it at Flint, eyes still on Cynthia. She was crying now, and the sobs intensified as he shook her roughly for a second time.

"What did you hear?"

"Nothing," she squeaked. "Nothing, I swear. I don't know what you were talking about."

"You little liar."

"Please," Cynthia choked out. "Please. I didn't mean - My children are at home, alone. Please let me go. I'll go back to them. I won't come here again. I didn't hear anything at all."

"You think you can win my pity with your whimpering about your children?" Nott sneered. "When you left them alone to break into my house and spy on me?"

"Nott, let her go, " Flint begged. "She's telling the truth. She must be. Your tracking charms go off straight away. She didn't have time to hear anything."

Wild eyed with fear for his carefully constructed plan, Nott took the small potion bottle from inside his robes and conjured a glass of water. He dissolved a single drop into the liquid and held it out.

"She's to drink this. Now. Then I'll let her go."

Cynthia didn't move. Flint was also looking petrified as he stared at the glass.

"It's not poison," Nott said irritably. "I told you, I don't kill unless necessary. It's Mnemosynic." He slammed the golden topped bottle down on the table. "See. Innocent memory potion. She'll forget why she came here and what she heard."

"But you can't," Flint protested. "You said that potion wipes out everything. You can't do that to her."

"One drop won't hurt her," Nott said scornfully. "You saw me put it in. She'll be fine. She'll forget a week at most. And then she'll turn round and go back to your children, safe and sound. Won't you?" He added sweetly to Cynthia.

But the thought of losing her memory was more terrifying still. "My baby," she said. "He's six months old. He's ill. I had to take him to hospital this morning. Please. Please. I can't forget. I can't. I didn't hear anything, I swear."

His face was now close to hers. The smell of his breath, stale and sour, coated her nose and throat but she couldn't turn away.

"Strangely enough," he hissed. "I don't believe you."

"I'm telling the truth," Cynthia pleaded. "I have no idea what you were talking about and even if I did I wouldn't say a word. You can trust me on that."

"I don't trust anyone," Nott said. "Least of all sneaky little rabbits like you. Hopping around with your big, pathetic eyes. Worming in and out of other people's business."

"You can trust me. I swear you can."

Nott's mouth twitched, as though he were amused. He directed his wand at her instead.

"You swear, do you? Would you swear on your life?"

"W - what?"

His wand was still pointing in her face, glass of Mnemosynic laced water in the other hand.

"You can take this potion or you can make the Unbreakable Vow to keep your eternal silence. I know what I'd rather do, personally, but it's your choice."

Shaking from head to foot, Cynthia stared at the glass, then at the bottle on the table. She couldn't forget. She couldn't. She might forgot her own child. And it may not be memory potion at all. There was an odd, metallic appearance to the potion that Cynthia didn't like. Knowing Nott, it could easily be poison. She hadn't heard a word of his conversation, so swearing her silence was surely not going to do any harm.

"The vow," she said at last. "The vow. I'll do the vow."

In response, Nott yanked her hand towards him, grasping her wrist tightly as he raised his wand. Ideally the bond would be sealed by a third party, but as the only option right now was the woman's own husband, who looked as though he would happily crush Nott's skull between his enormous hands, he would have to do it himself.

"Will you, Cynthia Flint, vow to never tell another living soul what you have just heard?" he asked.

"I didn't hear-"

She subsided as Nott glared at her.

"I will.'

The first thread of fire began snaking round their interlocked hands.

"And will you swear to never speak of anything you find out about my business in the future."

"I - I will."

Cynthia was unable to look away as the second flame entwined with the first.

"And will you swear that should anyone ever ask after either myself or your husband, you will assure them you know nothing, on pain of death?'

Hot, fresh tears spilled over her cheeks as she committed to the dangerous words, but it would be far more perilous to renege on the vow at this stage.

"I will."

The fire blazed white before binding their arms and fading to nothing. Nott let go of her and she backed away at once. She was alive. Memory intact. At what cost, she now wondered.

"That's it then," Nott said. "I hope you're happy with your choice. And don't think you can get around it by writing a letter, or showing someone a memory. You'd be dead the second it left your treacherous little hand."

Cynthia rounded on Marcus the second they returned home, demanding he tell her what was happening, and his refusal was not well received. She looked angrier than he had ever known her, pointing out that he could tell her whatever he liked. Anything at all. Because she had now sworn her eternal silence on pain of death.

Marcus cracked in the end, unable to bear the torrent of hurt reproaches, and he recounted his threat to William, his secret meetings with Nott, Nott's scheme, Nott's memory potion experiment. He even confessed about the awful, twisted Changeling Potion, although he could not look her in the eye as did so. The only part he missed out entirely was the bribe of gold, unable to admit her brother was supposed to end up dead, and pretending that the aim had been to land Bulstrode in Azkaban. Cynthia's face was angry enough without the full admission, and she stormed back at him, rage amplifying her tiny appearance. How could he do this? When they were on the brink of starvation and homelessness. When his son was merely months old, when he had a family to protect. How could he not care?

"I do care," he roared, outraged. "Of course I care. That's why I-"

He broke off. Morella had come out of the bedroom and was staring at them, eyes dark and reproachful. Cynthia immediately tried to reign in her anger.

"Cadmus is awake," Morella said, no small amount of accusation in her tone. "You woke him up."

Now that the arguing had died away, Cynthia could hear his pitiful cries.

"I'll be through in two minutes, sweetheart," she said, tone now soft. "Two minutes, I promise. Stay with him until then, OK?"

Marcus lowered his voice too as Morella shuffled back through to the bedroom.

"Cynthia, I've made mistakes. Big mistakes. But you know I love you. You know I care about you. I never wanted this. I'm in too deep now and if we don't go through with this I'll be caught and sent to Azkaban anyway. Could be for life this time. Is that what you want?"

Tears blinded her as she shook her head wordlessly. She needed Marcus. Marcus, her husband. Marcus, her friend. Marcus the bully, he had been at school. But he had never bullied her…

She was so very, very miserable. William had graduated, no longer there even if she wanted him. Which she didn't, she kept reminding herself. Astoria had been sorted into Slytherin but she didn't spend much time with Cynthia - she seemed to like the other first years better. To cap it all, Dementors encircled the castle, sucking any remaining hope and happiness from the air. And here she sat, finishing her charms homework in the corner of the common room before breakfast because she had been too tired the night before. And Millicent Bulstrode had just spotted her.

"Stinky, stinky little Cynthy," Millicent chanted softly, inching closer, reaching her, running a finger over Cynthia's scalp, then pulling down hard on her ponytail. "Sitting all alone. Where are your friends, Stinky? Oh and she's worked so, so hard…" Millicent picked up the ink bottle and slowly, deliberately, poured its contents over the completed essay, soaking the parchment. "Now you can be Inky Stinky Cynthy," Millicent whispered. Cynthia felt the tears burning her eyelids as the ink splattered onto her face, her hands, her robes. What was the point in trying? What was the point in anything? And then-

Millicent was lifted clean off her feet and there was a crunch as she hit the stone wall behind them. The ink bottle in her hand fell to the ground and smashed. Marcus Flint had appeared out of nowhere in his quidditch robes and slammed her into the wall by the throat. Millicent cried out in pain, struggling, scared herself now. Flint's face was millimetres from hers.

"Touch her again," he growled, "and I will kill you. I will fucking. Kill. You. Understand?" Millicent let out a confirmatory squeak and he dropped her, hard, on the shards of broken ink bottle. She scurried away in tears and Marcus Flint merely gave Cynthia a curt nod before heading down to his dormitory to change.

Millicent had given Cynthia a wide berth after that, and nothing had been quite so bad again. The girls in her dormitory left her to her own devices. Astoria was still her friend, if a little absent, and the following years had blurred together as she kept her head down and mouth shut while the school was rocked with far greater worries than a lonely, unhappy Slytherin girl: the Triwizard tournament, the death of another student, the whispers of renewed dark activity beyond the walls of the castle, the dreaded High Inquisitor, and eventually Voldemort's confirmed return to power.

Her relationship with Marcus had started after a chance meet up during the holidays of her fourth year. They had spent every minute of that summer in each other's company, and she had been devastated when he had been sentenced to a year in Azkaban after attempted theft from a local jewellers. But the war had started by then. Azkaban prisoners escaped every week, and one single month after his arrest, Marcus had turned up at Hogwarts looking for her. Cynthia had left without a backwards glance, never to return. They had waited out the war, relying on their pureblood names to see them through, and when they had, later, discovered their own distant family ties, it had been too late. She loved him, he loved her and so they had stayed together, eventually married, preserving, purely by accident, the ancient tradition of inter family marriage.

Marcus had found her when she had no one else. He had fixed her when she was broken, stolen for her when she had nothing. Endured Azkaban for her. Given her their children. She couldn't be without him again.

Yet William was still her brother. She had cut him out of her life, knowing deep down he had done nothing wrong, and he would now pay the price for her seeming indifference.

Cadmus's wails intensified and Cynthia turned her back on her husband.

"I'm going to look after our son," she said. "Then I'm going to decide how we get out of this mess. And you're going to help me."

With both children finally asleep, Cynthia broke the silence that had been stretching on between them.

"You can't expect me to sit here and do nothing while Nott lands my brother in jail," she burst out. "I can't do that. He's my family. He's your family. An innocent member of our family who has never done anything wrong. If you hadn't gone for his money in the first place none of this would have happened."

"What do you want me to do?" Flint helpless, knew a further wave of relief that he had not told her the full extent of Nott's intentions. "There's nothing we can do."

"There must be," Cynthia said, a stubborn set to her brown eyes and pert mouth. "Nott has bound me to silence, not inaction. Clearly thought I wasn't capable of standing in his way."

"He's right," Flint said baldly. "You can't stop him. Nott's too clever with too many connections. And what good would it do? He's already planted the evidence. You'll die if you tell the truth. Nott will kill me if I do. Face it, Cynthia. Your brother is going to Azkaban. All we can do is keep ourselves free. He'll - he'll be OK." He couldn't meet her eye. Somehow, when it came down to it, he was going to have to pretend he hadn't known about the plan to kill Bulstrode rather than incarcerate him. "Azkaban is better than it was. I should know."

But Cynthia was thinking about William's anxiety, his fears, the condition she knew every detail of from his letters and explanations even though she had never spoken to him about it in person.

"He doesn't like being locked up,' she said. "Never has. You don't understand. He has problems. Worries. Phobias. Azkaban will as good as kill him. There must be a way to help him. Warn him. You've been to his house since Nott did the charms, haven't you?" She sat up, mind now whirring. "We could warn him. He might be able to think of a plan. And Nott will be at work tomorrow. He'll be out of the way."

Her sudden streak of hope was not shared by her husband.

"Why would he trust us?" he said, bleakness in every syllable. "You haven't spoken to him in eight years. I threatened the mother of his child. He won't listen to us."

This reminder of another important woman in William's life, one who knew more of his ways and doings than she did, brought an instant stab of jealousy, but Cynthia fought down the emotion with difficulty. There was too much at stake here.

"He might," she said. "If she was there as well."

It wasn't easy to convince Marietta to meet with them. In fact, when they located her place of work, Marcus was convinced she was going to hex them both, or at the very least storm out herself. Then Cynthia spoke in quiet, trembling tones, imploring her to listen, and eventually Marietta consented to hear them out.

Marcus explained as best he could. He told her much the same story he had given Cynthia, with the second omission of what had happened to her baby, unable to reveal the truth behind the dark, twisted event that had brought tragedy crashing into her life. Nonetheless, Marietta's face became colder with every word he uttered.

"Let me get this straight," she said, cheeks pale but eyes dark with anger. "You come to William's home, you threaten me, you blackmail him into giving you money, you plot to land him in prison with Nott, you take him away from me when I needed him… and now you expect me to believe you want to help him? Why on earth would I believe that?"

"He's my brother."

It was the first time Cynthia had spoken since convincing her to come with them down the lane and Marietta had no idea why she had let her husband do the talking. Surely she could not be less articulate than Marcus Flint, who had stumbled over the explanation, grunting and rehashing and amending. It had been painful beyond measure to endure but she had heard him out and now understood, for the most part, what was happening and the danger William was about to find himself in.

"He's my brother," Cynthia repeated. "Please. I have to help him."

The tears glimmering on her eyelashes were genuine and Marietta suddenly believed there was no trick involved. She knew from William how much Cynthia had adored him growing up. He had recounted her habit of following him everywhere, asking for his advice and his opinions, waiting for him each time he returned on the Hogwarts Express, writing to him every day until she started school herself. With her sorting had come an abrupt change in attitude, but it seemed those childhood emotions had never been extinguished, just buried under stubbornness and pride.

Cynthia had children too, Marietta reminded herself. If she and William ever married those children would be her own niece and nephew. Above all, William was in trouble and she had no chance of helping him alone. She wouldn't even be able to locate his house.

"Alright," Marietta said. "Alright. I'll try and help. What now?"

It took the best part of two hours to reverse the Draught of Living Death and revive William to the point of having a sense filled discussion. Eventually they got him sitting up and coherent, listening as Marietta and Marcus intermittently gave him piece after piece of information. He appeared too shocked by proceedings to display his normal signs of panic or stress, but it was hard to know what he was thinking. His eyes continued to slide out of focus, and Marietta wasn't sure how much he was taking in.

"We need to go to the Ministry," she told him, for what felt like the hundredth time. "We have to. You're in too deep - you have to be upfront. We can't create more secrets and lies and have to live by them."

Cynthia's eyes filled with tears again and she clutched at her husband's hand. The husband who would go to jail, at least for a time and possibly for life, if the truth came out in its entirety.

"There must be another way," Cynthia murmured. "Something other than telling the Ministry. Please. There must be."

Marietta saw the guilt in William's eyes and knew he understood what was at stake. She also knew, with a resentful lurch of the heart, whose wish he would respect. Even now, after all these years of estrangement and petty resentment, his sister came first. Above everyone else. Above the woman who should have been the mother of his child.

"There might be," he said. "There might be. Let me think for a moment." He put his face in his hands, trying to collect his sluggish thoughts. "If we can first destroy the evidence here, there may be a way to beat Nott at his own game."

"How?" Marcus cut in, staring round the room. The study was crammed with potions, books and odd devices, and he knew many of them were planted there by Nott. "How do you destroy all this? There's loads of it. I saw some. He planned this for months."

"We can use the recyclator for a lot of it." William indicated his first and most successful invention, a prototype of which sat in the corner. "You can put almost anything through it. The potions would be reduced to their raw ingredients. Any plans would turn into blank parchment. And then-"

But trailed off with wide-eyed alarm, looking towards the entrance of his study. Nott was standing there, apoplectic with rage.

The problem with embroiling oneself in lies and deceit is that as soon as one element gets knocked out of place, the domino effect can be devastating, and Nott was finding this out to his cost. He was furious with himself. Livid. He should have taken the Mnemosynic and poured it down Cynthia's throat as she struggled. Using his wand to cast an illegal spell - in a pathetic moment of leniency - had been beyond stupid when he was due a wand scan at work any day now. When when that check came, he would need to explain to his superiors and possibly the Minister himself why he had performed the Unbreakable Vow, a spell banned by British law since the end of the war.

He paced his house, absorbed in his own thoughts for most of the night, trying to think of a suitable excuse, but none sprang to mind. How unbelievably moronic to have made this elementary mistake now, after all his careful wit and cunning.

After much deliberation and without any better ideas, Nott was forced to settle for an alternative plan. He would go to the Ministry now, wandless, admit to losing his own and request to use one of the Ministry tagged devices while he attempted to find it. It ran the risk of raising suspicions - not ideal at this delicate stage of the operation - but wands were as important as body parts in their world. What wizard would venture out without one, unless they truly had no other option?

To his frustration, it was not a quick process. Without his wand, he was unable to get through the automated security process, and therefore had to sign in for a temporary pass. Then there was the hold up with registering his own wand as lost. Finally, he made it to the wand stores, and Dinklage, the old Ministry wand guardian, provided him with a spare after yet more faff and paperwork.

"Happens to the best of us," he assured Nott, bearing his remaining teeth in a cheerful smile. "Hope you find yours though! My first wand broke before I did my OWLs. No wand since has been the same."

This was indeed the thought that preoccupied Nott on his return home. He was very attached to his wand and would need to figure out a long term plan to permit his continued usage of the device he had owned since turning eleven, the wand that had chosen him. He returned home, however, to an even greater worry. Said wand was sitting on the table where he had left it, going haywire, spinning around and glowing luminous red as high pitched whistles rent the air. The alert that meant someone was in, not his own house, but Bulstrode's. With a roar of fury, Nott left the Ministry wand on the table, snatched up his own, and departed for Bulstrode's house at once.

"Did you really think I was going to chance you meddling?" he snarled at Flint. "I've had tracking charms on this house for months now." He glanced at Marietta, understanding dawning. "Although you are clearly more capable than I gave you credit for. And you. I should have poisoned you after all."

This last sentence was directed at Cynthia as he grabbed her arm and twisted it. Cynthia screamed in pain and Marcus let out a bellow of outrage. Marietta scrabbled for her own wand, but William was quicker, snatching it from the table next to him and turning it on Nott. The blasting curse hit Nott's chest, propelling him backwards and upwards across the room. It was a powerful spell, so great was William's rage, fuelled by his inherent need to protect his sister, and Nott dropped her instantly. He was slammed into the high shelves above the potions bench with a crunch, his head whipping backwards and striking the wall. Then gravity kicked in, and Nott slid back down over the marble bench and face first onto the floor. The only other sound was that of two potion bottles bouncing down along with his body, as it crumpled onto the cold stone tiles.

No one spoke for a long moment, stunned by the speed at which the succession of events had occurred. Marcus was first to approach his former friend, turning him over and fumbling for Nott's wrist to see if he could find a pulse.

"He's dead," he grunted.

William's eyes widened.

"No," he stammered, pale blue irises rimmed entirely with white as he dropped Marietta's wand with a clatter. "No - he can't be - out cold - surely."

Marietta, shaking, was now examining Nott too, listening for a heartbeat or the smallest sign of breath. She met William's gaze, her expression confirming the truth of Flint's words.

"But it'll be alright," she told him, returning to his side at once and grasping his hands. "It will. You'll be OK. With Nott dead -"

The words died before they were fully formed. The truth began to take hold. With Nott dead, they alone knew of his deception. And the proof of it lay spreadeagled before them, never to speak another word again.

"I killed him," William muttered.

Marietta shook her head fiercely, red curls flying round her face and standing out against her chalk white skin.

"You didn't mean to. You didn't use a killing curse. He's the one who plotted all this. It's not murder."

"They won't see it like that, will they?" William said. His breath was coming out in small, short, gasps. "The Ministry. Not after this. I'm damned by the lies he's spread or the fact I've murdered him, if not both."

"You didn't murder him."

"Manslaugher then," he whispered. "Does it matter what it's called? I'll be arrested either way."

"You don't know that," Marietta insisted. "You were protecting your sister. If we go and tell them the truth, they'll understand. You'll get off. You will."

Flint grunted at this. "Pucey's still in prison," he said. "His niece was attacked and he killed the attacker trying to stop him. Manslaughter, they said. He'll be in Azkaban for ten years."

"I can't go to Azkaban," William's hands were clammy to touch as he held Marietta's tighter. "I can't. I can't be locked up. You know that. You must understand that."

She gazed back at him, knowing that no amount of logic could get through to William in his current state of mind.

"So what are you going to do?"

There was a silence.

"Run." Flint shrugged. "What else? Run. Hide. You get far enough away, they might never find you."

OOO